Ballad
by Laine Montgomery
Summary: She had exactly thirteen freckles on her nose.  A collection of GinnySirius vignettes.
1. In Just One Sitting

_**Author's Note/Disclaimer**: Astonishingly enough, I don't own any of the characters in the Harry Potter universe. Quite a bit of the inspiration for this fic comes from Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. And all chapter titles will be pulled from the lyrics of "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk," by Rufus Wainwright (my official Sirius/Ginny theme song). I think that takes care of everything._

She had exactly thirteen freckles on her nose.

It had taken him some time to acquire this information, watching her as he did through peripheral vision alone. He feared what might happen if he allowed his gaze to settle upon her fully…would his retinas burn from the impact? Would she melt into the air like a mirage, as though she had never been? Or (and this was the worst possibility of all) would her sweet brown eyes grow dark with suspicion, with comprehension…would she _see?_

He must surely be mad.

A shuffle in the doorway, the pat-pat-pat of sandals on hardwood, and she was there. In the room with him. Alone.

He pretended to read the newspaper. A flip of the page, and a harsh rip appeared across the Minister of Magic's face. He tried to breathe, to will his hands to stop shaking.

She began to whistle. The tune was vaguely familiar, but he could not name it…she began to tap her foot in time to the melody.

One little look, one glance couldn't hurt…he shifted his focus ever so slightly to the right. She leaned across the countertop, wispy little arms straining to reach the plate of biscuits resting in the most distant corner. She lifted herself onto tiptoe, and the muscles in her legs tautened with the effort…

"Merlin." He hissed the word through clenched teeth before fumbling for the almost-empty teacup in front of him. He raised the chipped porcelain to his lips and tilted the paper in an attempt to conceal his face, but it was to no avail…he could feel her cinnamon gaze on him.

"Anything interesting?" She spoke at an unusually low pitch for a girl of her age, and he still could not shake the twinge of surprise that always accompanied the arrival of her voice.

He wondered if he could pretend that he hadn't heard.

But no…even through the corner of his eye, he could tell that her stare had intensified. She was waiting.

He continued to focus his attention on the paper as he forced himself to reply evenly, "No, not especially."

She leaned against the counter and idly nibbled around the perimeter of the biscuit clutched in her hand. Several tiny crumbs clung to her lower lip, and she allowed the tip of her tongue to wander outward just far enough to clear the soft pink surface…

"Quiet here today." He had to say something…needed a distraction. No use.

"Yeah." The tone of her voice gave no indication that she had noticed anything amiss. She took a larger bite of the biscuit, and her mouth was still full when she spoke again, "Oh! Mum made these for you…I was supposed to tell you…" She began to giggle softly. He felt his stomach turn on end. He couldn't take this.

"That was kind of her," he sputtered. He followed this response with a cough…she'd think his hoarseness a result of a tickle in his throat. Good. But he wasn't sure how long he could endure the situation…just the two of them…alone…"Where is everyone?"

She shrugged vaguely. "I don't know. Out. Somewhere. Dunno where. No one ever tells me anything." A hint of resentment. Against his better judgment, he allowed his gaze to drift toward her more directly. Her eyes cast downward, a tiny wrinkle furrowing her brow…he swallowed deeply. His throat was parched.

"Oy, Gin!" Ron's voice permeated the air like a bugle call. He saw her push the rest of the biscuit into her mouth before wiping her hands on the oversized shirt that seemed to engulf her delicate frame. "'Bout time," she muttered, her dainty sandaled feet pat-pat-patting toward the door.

Inhale, exhale. Relief.

But no…she stopped directly behind him, peering over his shoulder. He held his breath, hardly daring to move. She leaned closer…the scent of lavender clung to her hair…the warmth of her skin radiated outward…_she's a child. A child. A child._

And then she laughed.

Her speckled hands reached over his shoulders to claim the paper. He felt his grip weaken, and he surrendered his shield to her. Still the laughter, the beautiful laughter…

The sounds of rustling…one moment…two…and she replaced the paper in his hands. It was different…it was legible…it was…

Right side up.

Shit.

"Might have better luck this way," she called over her shoulder before stepping out into the corridor in search of her brother. Her silvery laughter trailed behind her like a lingering fragrance.

He placed the paper down and buried his head in his hands. He felt a migraine coming on.


	2. If I'm A Mess

Mum was going to kill her. No question.

She clamped her teeth together and let a small stream of air hiss through the slight gap between the two in front. The resultant whistle amused her, so she did it again.

Now, back to business.

She couldn't off-hand recall how many sundresses she'd ruined since the start of summer holiday, but she was sure that her mother had a flawless mental record of each stain, each tear, each loss of a button. And magic or no magic, the particular damages that she tended to inflict upon her clothing were not easy to rectify.

One more incident like this and her mother would revoke her Muggle clothing privileges. Two more months of summer holiday, and she'd be shuffling around in scratchy, stifling robes while her brothers sniggered and teased and flaunted their blue jeans and rugby shirts.

Bloody hell.

She stood in front of the sink, squinting at the tiny ink splot on her skirt. It was small, yes, but that didn't matter. Mum would notice all the same. She had a real talent for it.

She turned the knob of the faucet and grimaced at the rust-speckled water that emerged. Everything about 12 Grimmauld Place was dusty, decaying, disgusting…

She wrinkled her nose with disdain and drummed her fingertips on the sink. This was bloody ridiculous. Finally, after several agonizing moments of waiting, the water cleared up to her satisfaction. She lifted the skirt of her dress and stood on tiptoe, lowering the fabric beneath the stream.

It wasn't working. Maybe soap…? She scrubbed the offending spot with a crusty bar of hand soap. Rinse, repeat. Wait. Nothing.

Her fingers itched as she thought of her wand. Maybe just a teeny tiny little spell…but NO. Tempting the Ministry of Magic would be most unwise, especially in this place. Damn.

She sensed that someone was watching her. Probably Mum, or one of the boys; she was going to get it now. A beleaguered sigh, and she leaned back very slightly to peer around the doorframe.

It was _him._

He wasn't staring at her straight-out. In fact, he appeared to be rifling through a stack of leather-bound spell-books. But he was watching her all the same, she knew it.

Her cheeks began to tingle, and she wondered if Mum was right about her impending sunburn. The feeling only intensified when she realised that in her efforts to clean the spot on her dress, she had lifted her skirt far up her legs, almost to her knickers.

A slight panic seized her; should she close the door? That would surely be the simplest solution. It would never have to be mentioned…she would never allude to his watching her. Surely that was the thing to do.

But she paused. There was something about it…something interesting. She couldn't have explained it if asked, and she knew that there was something inherently wrong about it, whatever it was…but even so…

She looked down at her exposed legs. Skinny and freckled, blemished with mosquito bites, and yet…yet.

She let her peripheral vision wander over to him. He had turned his gaze to face her more fully now; she could see the irises of his eyes. Grey.

With a fractional extension of her foot, she nudged the door open just a little bit farther.


	3. A Friendly Intervention

**Author's Note: **_This chapter is a bit of an experimentation in style. You may find it different in terms of syntax and tone from the previous two, and that's because I'm playing around a bit with different methods of writing. Like? Don't like? Please let me know. _

"Biscuits are good. Don't suppose Kreacher made them, then?" Remus's eyes twinkled amusedly as he polished off the biscuit in his hand and immediately reached for another.

Sirius snorted cynically before replying, "If he did, d'you think I'd serve them to company? Likely to be poisoned." Remus laughed, but Sirius silenced him with a quirk of his eyebrow. "You think I'm joking? It'll happen one of these days—just you wait. But no, Molly made the biscuits."

"Ah, yes. Nice having them all around, isn't it?" Sirius failed to respond, focusing his attention on the carvings that ran along the edge of the tabletop. Remus opted to elaborate: "I mean, it must be awfully quiet here, most of the time…"

"Not exactly quiet." With a glance upward, Sirius nodded towards the outside chambers, where the indignant portrait of Walburga Black shrieked epithets without pause. "When she was alive, she couldn't go for long without screaming herself hoarse. Portraits don't seem to have that problem…she can go all day now. And she takes full advantage of it." He placed his elbows on the table and let his tousled dark head fall into his hands. "Moony…I just…"

Remus rose from his chair and crossed to his friend, placing a comforting hand upon the other man's upper back. "I know…I know. But now with the Order popping in and out all the time, and the Weasleys hanging about…it's got to be better now, isn't it?" His hand began to move in slow circles, and he felt Sirius's breathing relax. He cast a glance around the doorframe into the kitchen, and his voice was uncharacteristically cheery as he spoke: "Looks like the girls are making steak-and-kidney pie for supper…think I'll stick around for that…"

Sirius allowed his lips to curl into a smile; Remus was trying…unsuccessfully, yes, but he appreciated the effort all the same. Lifting his head, he followed Remus's stare into the kitchen. Molly stood at center, delegating responsibilities to her two assistants with all the authority of a Muggle military general. Hermione seemed to be taking to her assignments with great aplomb, but Ginny…

The youngest Weasley toyed idly with the ball of dough on the countertop, her delicate fingers tracing patterns in the scattered flour. A wisp of ruddy hair fell into her eyes, and when she lifted her hand to her face to remove it, a white streak appeared upon her cheek. She turned her head slightly…she was facing the doorway…her gaze wandered outwards…

And there were her eyes.

Sirius felt his throat constrict, his muscles tighten, his eyes widen. She continued to stare straight at him, unyielding, unblinking. He began to quake…literally tremble…but he could not look away. Although his stomach twisted with nausea, although the little color remaining in his face threatened to disappear completely…he could not look away…

"Padfoot?"

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him back to reality. His lungs filled with air once again as he dragged his attention back to Remus, who watched him quizzically. He forced his face into a grin, and his voice assumed the same false optimism that Remus had employed when he spoke once more, "Yes, yes, you definitely should stay…Tonks'll be around later, and the Weasleys and everyone…it'll be nice…"

"Tonks is coming?" Remus withdrew his hand from Sirius's shoulder, and his face adopted a peculiar expression. "Well, that'll be nice…haven't seen her in a bit…wonder how she is…"

"What do you mean, you haven't seen her in a bit? You both were here yesterday…" A twitch appeared in Remus's left eye…his lips pursing, his nostrils flaring…

Of _course._

"Moony," Sirius began, a genuine gleam of mischief appearing in his normally-furtive grey eyes, "Do you fancy my cousin?"

"What?" Remus fairly shouted. "That…that's preposterous…she's a friend is all…"

"Moony."

"I…" A pause. Then a sigh, and he spoke again, "What does it matter, anyway? I'm…well…what I am…and she's so lively and happy…and _young._ She's so _young, _Sirius, barely in her twenties…"

Sirius felt his gaze wander unbidden toward the kitchen, where a redhaired girl of fourteen anxiously gnawed on her lower lip…her plump, rose-colored lower lip…

When he looked back at Remus, at the shame and concern in those earnest eyes…

He fought back the urge to laugh.


	4. A Lesson in Tightropes

Everywhere she turned, there was dust.

Dust on the chairs. Dust on the staircase. Dust in the bedsheets, the cupboards, the teacups. Dust. Everywhere.

Only a couple of steps down the corridor and her lungs were full of the stuff. She gasped, choked—the grime only drifted deeper. Her body shaking, she collapsed forward at the waist. Strands of copper flew into her mouth as she wheezed and coughed and retched.

Then finally, a pause.

She inhaled deeply through her nose…waited…then sighed with relief. A lift of the arm, and she vigorously rubbed the dampness under her nose with her sleeve, sniffling all the while.

"Bloody fucking hell," she seethed.

And much to her surprise, she heard a reply.

"Disgusting. But then, how can one expect a wretched little blood traitor to behave like a lady?"

Ginny's face twisted into an indignant scowl as she pivoted on her heel and whipped her head about to confront the speaker. When she identified her antagonist, however, her defensive stance relaxed considerably.

She should have known.

The portrait of Walburga Black had never spoken directly to Ginny, but the girl had nevertheless become quite familiar with the painting's scathing arsenal of insults, curses and general expressions of rage. So colorful was Mrs. Black's vocabulary that Ginny couldn't help but question her qualifications as a judge of ladylike behavior. And while Ginny's temper had little tolerance for flesh-and-blood aggressors, there was something irresistibly comical about a self-righteous portrait…technically an inanimate object, after all…confined by the boundaries of its frame…

Ginny felt her lips curl into a mischievous smile. This could be fun.

"Well, _that's _not very nice," she exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips and feigning an expression of scandalized disapproval. "Really, Mrs. Black, where _are _your manners?"

Oil-painted grey eyes narrowed contemptuously as Mrs. Black retorted in clipped tones, "Insolent little rube. Impertinent guttersnipe…might as well be a Mudblood…"

"Such language!" Ginny squealed, clapping her hands over her ears and widening her eyes, which couldn't help but twinkle mirthfully. "My ears are burning! And here I thought that true _ladies_ were above such common talk…but then, I suppose you can't help it…if you weren't raised properly, that is...breeding is everything, you know, and if no one ever taught you to speak like a lady…" Here she paused, lips twitching in anticipation. Any second now…

And sure enough, the portrait of Mrs. Black released an incendiary stream of profanities so foul that Ginny clapped her hand over her mouth in genuine astonishment. Trying unsuccessfully to stifle her giggles, the youngest Weasley sauntered over to the painting and began to toy with the tassel of the accompanying curtain. "Now, now, Mrs. Black…if you can't contain yourself, you'll leave me with no choice…" Several tugs on the curtain pull emphasized her point.

The portrait emitted a piercing shriek of fury before continuing her tirade with more venom and volume than ever. Ginny exhaled a sigh of mock bewilderment before lazily plucking at the curtain pull. "All right then…you've brought this upon yourself, you know." She began to cross in front of the painting, tassel still in hand…

"It'll just be worse if you do that."

With a surprised squeal, she released the rope and whirled around to face the entryway of the corridor. A flush of crimson flooded her cheeks and ears, and she lowered her face quickly to conceal the spreading color. "I'm sorry…I was only playing…"

She thought she saw a smile drift across Sirius's lips, but as she refused to train her eyes upon him fully, she couldn't quite be sure.

"It's the only reason I keep that curtain drawn…she hates the dark, you see. It makes her scream even louder." His tone seemed benign enough, and Ginny allowed her posture to loosen somewhat. She forced herself to glance upward, meeting his eyes briefly…

He was looking at her in a _way. _A way that was different.

And now that she was thinking of it…he often looked at her that way.

What did it mean? She couldn't tell.

But somehow, it made her feel…

Nervous. Excited. Alive.

_Interesting._

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and she inwardly winced at the increased breathiness of her voice. She took a step forward…two…three…still he looked at her like _that._

She halted. Her gaze drifted upward once more, and she met his eyes again. But this time, she did not look away.

Inhale. Exhale.

Her voice dropped to a lower pitch than usual when she spoke:

"Are you angry?"

He blinked, and she flinched sharply at the momentary absence of his strange grey stare. He shifted his position in the doorframe very slightly, and his eyes contained something almost like mischief as he spoke…practically whispered…

"Furious."

Her skin tingled with a sudden warmth, and she smiled in response. Several moments passed, and neither he nor she made any effort to change the energy passing between them.

Oddly perfect.

But perfection is transient.

She was the first to break the silence.

"I should go find Mum…she probably needs help in the kitchen…" She knew that she was mumbling and hoped ardently that her words had been coherent.

Sirius nodded vaguely, his eyes stranger and more unreadable than ever.

Her brain screamed with confusion and frustration, but she remained outwardly composed. She had to pass him to reach the kitchen.

She took another tiny step. Two more. Three more.

He stood stock still. Waiting. Watching.

She had to know…

She veered slightly to the left. Her shoulder brushed against his arm as she passed through the doorframe. The bare skin of her elbow made contact with the bare skin of his wrist.

He was trembling.


End file.
